Embarassing

Something I've been thinking a lot about lately is how vulnerable writing makes you.  Listening to CJane talk about how she allows herself to be so open to the world and then lets the cards fall where they may is inspiring...but also intimidating.  I'm not so worried about crossing the line writing about other people.  I'm very sensitive to others, and I would be hyper-sensitive when writing anything about them.  I would never write anything bad anyone, even if I tried.

Me on the other hand...well, I'm pretty worried about embarrassing myself.

I do a lot of dumb things.  Most of the time I recognize they are dumb, but feel the need to do them anyway, because life would be boring if I didn't. I'm not talking about truly dumb things, like doing drugs or playing with matches.  No, when it comes to safety I am always on the ball...sometimes to a fault.  But when it comes to social situations, or trying new things, or being involved, I go all in.

The fashion club is having modeling auditions? I sign up.  Accessibility week is going on? Get me some crutches.  There's a costume contest this Halloween?  You better believe I'm dressed up as Ginny Weasley (while she was possessed by Voldemort, no less, with bloody chicken feathers coating my hands and hair, and bags under  my eyes.) I'm easily enthused. I have an obsessive personality. I'm in love with with attention. Generally, I find this to be a good thing.  But looking back on my life and thinking about recording it has me shrinking in my chair.  Writing down things that happened is very different than doing them spur of the moment.  It requires thinking things through, and having others read those thoughts.

I don't know why there is such a difference for me doing things, and then talking about doing them. But it all just seems so private, and I'm not even talking about weighty issues.  I'm just talking about petty college girl issues. But I am scared.

I don't know how I am going to keep those insecurities from limiting my writing.

What's funny?

Reading the segment in Tell It Slant about humor was particularly interesting to me, because I am fascinated by funny.

What's funny? Why do people laugh at what they laugh at? What do some people laugh at my jokes, and others not? Why will some people laugh at things I say that aren't even joke?s  Why are jokes different depending on if you are writing them, or performing them? Why do certain crowds like certain jokes over others, and why is laughter contagious? Why are some people just. not. funny?

These are questions I ask myself every day, as I prepare jokes to preform in front of a much too generous Humor U crowd.  That's another question.  Why are BYU audiences so much better than other ones? Is their attitude of service so ingrained into them it comes out in every way, including finding pity on an unfunny performer?

I did a set at a high school in Salt Lake City this week.  No one laughed.  They smiled, I'm sure.  Chuckled, occasionally.  But the same jokes I preformed the same way for approximately the same demographic failed miserably, when they were previously eaten up.

There are lots of reasons this was.  The auditorium was much too large for the small audience, and small audiences are hard to work on as it is.  But why should the amount of people we are preforming for change the success of the joke?  Would one person laugh at my joke in a big crowd, but not laugh at my joke in a small crowd? Why? Are people that impressionable, or is atmosphere really that important?

I don't know the answer to any of these questions.  At the end of the day, all I know is funny is a powerful thing, and I want so badly to be able to be in control of it.  Like the last airbender or something.  Which makes me feel sad about myself that I just made that comparison. Which makes me ripe for a self-deprecating joke.  Perfect.

Snow.

As I walked to class this morning, everyone had a different opinion about the snow.

For those from warm climates, like Southern California, it was death itself

For those from drier climates, it was a blizzard.

For those used to the snow, it was a familiar experience

And For those from Utah, it meant the beginning of another long, off and on season of snow and rain, of sun and glimmering hope, then back to snow.

People had different coping mechanisms.  Some were bundled up as if the world depended on it.  The cars were driving slower, and people were walking gingerly, afraid to slip at any moment. 

There is still a general buzz of excitement in something new: a chance to wear new fashions, a change from the normal sweltering heat.  But with every continual snow, the novelty will wear off, and the resentment will grow.

Red

Taylor Swift's new album.  Red.  I love it. 

A lot of people are criticizing it because it isn't her normal country vibe, but I love her new sound.  I feel like if I were a singer and I were touring around the world singing the same songs over and over and over, I would want to mix things up a little bit so I didn't sound exactly the same all the time.  I would also hope that what I was singing sounded different when I was 22 than it did when I was 15.

I just wish Taylor Swift could be my best friend.  She is just so nice and real, but exciting at the same time.  I am so afraid of risks and anything uncomfortable, and she is always so open to new things, even though she knows it could lead to heartbreak.  That is a skill she has that makes her such a good songwriter.  If she played it safe, she would have nothing interesting to write songs about, but because she falls so hard so fast, she has song inspiration out the wazoo.

I'm glad I can just listen to Taylor's music and live vicariously through her, because going through those ups and downs all the time would be exhausting.  I don't know how she does it.  But I am glad she does.  

Anchorage

I've only been in my grandma's apartment one time that I can remember.  She lives in Anchorage, Alaska, and has for most of her life.  She is 91 years old, and still lives independently, which amazes me.  She is in excellent shape, and she volunteers and the local hospital gift shop, as well as tourist centers.  She brought me up to Alaska for a visit when I was 14, and was an amazing host.  Although I'm sure she was tired much of the time, she took me anywhere and everywhere a tourist would want to go.  I went on a boat ride in Seward, Shopping in downtown anchorage, and to a nature reserve in Soldotna.

Her apartment was small but tidy.  I slept on a pull out couch in the living room, as there was only one bedroom.  At 86 she could still drive, which was a feat in my mind, and her car was the grandma-est car I have ever seen.

It's been 8 minutes and my brain is not having it today.  Sorry, folks.

My Childhood home

Last week I would have called my childhood home just "my home."  But I can't say that anymore.

My parents are moving.  They are moving to one city over, which is about 10 minutes away from my old house, but they are still moving.  The last time they moved was in 1996.  I was three years old.  That is the house we have lived in ever since.

I remember three things about the old house: there was a house that looked like an igloo, and a big blue house that triplets lived in. They owned a gumball machine.

Every memory besides those were made while I was living in the white brick house across from the mountain.

When I went home last weekend, it didn't occur to me that it would be the last time seeing my home while I could still consider it my own.  The next time I would come home was thanksgiving, and by that point "home" will be my sister's house in South Jordan until construction on the new house is done.

As I was pulling out of the driveway, on my way back to Provo, it hit me: I was pulling out of it for the last time.  I began to cry, as I internally waved from the backseat, whispering goodbyes to my childhood home.

If I didn't live in my childhood home anymore, I must not be a child anymore.

Stage

Walking through the rows of people after my name is called is intimidating.  A row of chairs brought upstairs from a classroom fill the aisle, leaving very little room to make it to the stage.  For a moment, the fears of forgetting my jokes or completely bombing onstage are replaced with fears of tripping on a mic cord or stepping on someone's foot.

When I make it to the stage, and I hear my intro music end, the weight of what I am doing crashes down on me.  I am saying things in front of a crowd of people--some strangers, some friends--in attempts to make them laugh.  How presumptuous, to assume I am funny enough for people to pay money for. But they did, and now it is my time to fork out my end of the deal.

The spotlight prevents me from seeing anyone's face but those on the front row, and I try not to look at those.  I prefer staring at one of the paintings hanging from the back wall.  There is a slight reflection of myself, and part of me feels as though I am at home, practicing in front of a mirror.  But my mirror doesn't laugh like these people are laughing.

When I tell a successful joke a surge of pride shoots through me.  The laughter is less a noise and more a feeling: a vibration, a validation, immediate proof that I did something right.

Looking at the make-shift stage before or after a show is nothing special.  A few carpeted platforms pushed together in front of a lecture hall, a red drape velcroed on the wall, and a "Humor U" sign literally being held up by tape.  But when I am standing on the stage, proving myself after weeks of practice and preparation, I feel on top of the world.

Classy

My hometown started buzzing when the city announced the building of an In-n-Out burger in our own humble surroundings.  This meant different things for different people, but the biggest effect I saw was the classification (classy-fication) of the nearby McDonalds.

I was a fan of this McDonalds from the beginning.  I love Big Macs.  I love them.  And I love french fries. And I love orange soda.  That is what I got every time I went.  But I worried for my beloved McDonalds, because the In-N-Out was being built directly adjacent.  I hadn't been to In-N-Out very often, but the hype was insane.  Apparently it was the best of the best of the best.  And the old, slightly ghetto McDonalds just could keep up.

But Mickey D didn't go down without a fight.  Before the In-N-Out finished construction, McDonalds did some construction of its own.  The one awkwardly positioned drive-thru lane was replaced with two spacious lanes, surrounded by rock formations and a flowing waterfall.  Parking nearly doubled, and there was now an outdoor patio for consumers to eat under.

Inside, there were sliding glass doors, and bathrooms with automatic everythings.  The floor was beautifully tiled, and there was mod artwork on the walls.  There was yet another waterfall inside, this one a clear glass pane with water streaming down on both sides, the classic "M" arc etched on the opaque divider.  One corner of the cafe-esque restaurant had a fireplace, with a few soft benches surrounding a circular table.  There was a counter for those wishing to use the internet while they dined.  On the opposite side lived the most luxurious playground a child could imagine--including a in-ground piano that played melodies when jumped on.

Occasionally I will crave a Big Mac.  I die a little inside when I walk into the Provo McDonalds.  Surely that place cannot be within the same Franchise as the castle that awaits me back home. 

Dorm

I started my Freshman year just the way I needed to: alone.  I decided to stay in the dorms because I wasn't ready to cook for myself. (I have the rest of my life to do that).

 Lots of my friends felt sorry for me.

"Dorm rooms look like jail cells," they would tell me.

Not mine.  It didn't take any time at all for my dorm to become home.

Sticker appliques lined the wall, and a folded up pink sheet added some nice color to a bland, white windowsill.  Colorful bedspreads, magnets on the mini fridge, pictures on the cork board  clothes strewn about the floor.  All of these things defined my temporary home.

But what really made my new home complete was the people.  My roommate Lacy was perfect for me.  She was laid back and easy going, and is one of the few people who knows how to calm me down.  She knows how to make me laugh, and always laughs at my jokes.  She opened my eyes to the truth that every person has their own talents and struggles, and we are who we are for a reason.

We were very, very different.  We originally had almost nothing in common.  Music, movies, activities, fashion, nothing.  But it didn't matter.  As time went on, we made compromises, and introduced things to each other.  I now love Carrie Underwood, and she loves Harry Potter.  And we both love each other.

Christmas always reminds me of Lacy, now.  She would start listening to Christmas music in October, and would keep listening until September.  We decorated our room with everything: a little tree, stockings, mistletoe, lights, snowflakes, you name it. Lacy had an apple cinnamon air freshener that made our room smell like Christmas all the time.  I loved it. When I would go to class and open my backpack, a burst of apple cinnamon would greet me.  And when I went home--Davis County home--it smelled different.  I smelled different.  I smelled of my home.

The Grove

I grew up in a house that was directly across from a mountain.  I mean directly across.  If I were to talk out of my front door and keep going, I would end up going vertically after crossing the road.  This caused many hours and days hiking, digging trenches, building swings, catching/running away from snakes, or, depending on the season, sledding.

But my favorite part about the mountain while I was growing up was The Grove.  It was just seven houses south, and far enough up the hill that you felt adventurous, but close enough that you never felt vulnerable.  I was just sure I was the only one to ever discover this place, and I considered it my own.  The dozen or so trees provided shade from the beating sun, and families of birds and squirrels .  There were several large rocks and stumps, perfect for resting on, and the different shapes and sizes of trees accounted for all sorts of imaginary appliances.

A little girl could truly be a princess in The Grove.  Swinging around trees, leaping on boughs, The shadowy, mysterious leaves provided drama, romance, or terror, depending on the need for a particular story.  Every imaginative child needs a grove.

Law and Order

I had a love/hate relationship with watching Law and Order with my dad. On the one hand, I loved spending time with my dad, even if it was just sitting next to him watching a show.  I loved feeling smart and mature and like I was on the same page as everybody else.  On the other hand, I hated Law and Order.  Hated it.  It was gruesome, it was graphic, and it disturbed me deeply.  I had nightmares.  I would worry and worry and worry that I would be raped, or murdered, or kidnapped, or caught in some sort of hostage situation. 
 But it’s what my dad liked to watch.  Because he was a lawyer, I assumed that’s what he went to go do every day.  That wasn’t true. My dad works with white collar crime, pawnzie schemes and fraud, returning funds to stockholders.  But all I knew was he worked with bad people, and for some reason everyone, bad and, well, less-bad, didn’t like him. He couldn’t give them what they wanted. So when he came home, I pretended I wanted to watch law and order.  
Eventually I stopped watching. I just couldn’t take it anymore.  And I don’t know how it happened, but we started watching TV together again, only this time the show was Jeopardy.  It was also a love/hate relationship.  I loved Jeopardy.  I hated when I wasn’t watching jeopardy.  My dad and I, we’re both smart. We both hate the teen tournament, and we both understand how to wager in final jeopardy. It’s something we truly, legitimately had in common.

Oakcrest

When I went to Oakcrest for the first time, I was intimidated beyond belief.  Everything looked so huge.  The mountains, the trees, the field, the lodge, the array of cabins, there was so much and so much of it.  Would it be possible for this place to become home to me? I got a brief impression of how the campers would feel stepping off of the bus.

            Everything was green.  Being late April, things were wet and cold and untouched.  No one had been there since August of last year.   It was like the whole place was just waiting for us to arrive and bring it to life. 

            Just one week later, everything was brought to life. It was home.  

Pathetic.

I've never been a girl who needs, or even wants, a boyfriend.  I've been perfectly great single, I am very good at it, and I like who I am by myself.  But there is the occasional moment--like one I had tonight--where I look at my life and realize I've never had a significant relationship in my life.

This doesn't bother me, I'm only 19, but part of me feels like it should bother me.  I feel guilty, like I should try harder, like I should care more.  I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing to work on, but being in this hyper-dating atmosphere has definitely made it happen.

I'm studying--sort of--and so are all of my roommates.  Only Shelby (or as I call her, ShelbyandRyan) is at Ryan's, Brad came over to study with Emily, and Amanda has her friend Tyler over.  I am alone.  Which is fine.  I always study alone.  In fact, it's hard for me to study with other people.  I get distracted and get absolutely nothing done.  But for some reason studying alone tonight felt utterly pathetic.  So what did I decide to do? I went out with Amanda and Tyler to study.  And got absolutely nothing done.

Why? Did I want to get to know Tyler better? Not even a little bit.  Did I think being the third wheel would make me feel more connected to people? Maybe, but that was foolish.  All I know is, here I am, ready for bed, having done nothing but spend my evening on the couch with people I don't even really care about so that I wouldn't be pathetic.

That's pathetic.

Jack

My next door neighbor's dog, Jack, had to be put down the other day.

I never thought I could be this emotional over an animal.

My family has never really been into pets.  My dad is allergic to essentially everything, and none of us kids ever seemed particularly interested in having a pet, anyway.  I had a fish for a while.  His name was Filmore, I got him for a school project, and he lasted a surprisingly long time considering I was inconsistant at feeding him and rarely changed his water.  Obviously, I cared very deeply about him.

But Jack was different.  The Archibalds adopted him from the pound shortly after they moved next door to me.  He was precious.  He was a beautiful yellow lab, with only three legs.  For a while, he had to wear a cone around his head so he wouldn't lick an old wound.  He was big and gentle, and loved being petted. Strangely enough, he loved me.  I felt like he was my dog, only I never had to feed him or scoop his poop or take him for walks, so it was the best of all worlds.

Sometimes I would just give him big hugs and tell him all my fears.  My nephew, Holden, adored Jack.  I would take him over to say hi and pet him almost every day. I don't know how I am going to tell him, if I do at all.

I found out he was put down via facebook.  I started crying, which scared me a little, because I had never experienced loving a dog that much.  But I'll never forget jack, and the happiness he brought to me.